Practice
by callthemoonbeam
Summary: A lovesick Patrick tries to engage casually with Sister Bernadette while Timothy pushes him to practice for the three-legged race.


"So I've the afternoon free, I thought we might-"

"You do?" The hope and surprise in Tim's eyes struck him with guilt. "Then we can finally practice for the three-legged race!"

"Wouldn't you rather-?" But his son was already waving down Fred, who was toting a wheelbarrow back to the Nonnatus House gardens. Patrick followed him round the corner, casting a wary eye at the door.

Before he could decide whether it might be possible to look cool and collected hopping around on one foot, maybe if he just paused for a quick, "Hello, Sister!", Tim returned with a length of rope. Patrick glanced down at the uneven stones and slightly sloping drive. No, cool and collected seemed a pale second to knocking out one's own son by tripping on cobbles and falling on one's face.

"Shall we take this home to practice, then?"

"No, Dad, Bagheera's coming to coach us!" And indeed, Fred had just rounded the corner, whistle slung round his neck. Patrick's eyes flitted to the door again. The nurses should already have left for their afternoon rounds, it was highly unlikely she'd-

"Alright, Doc?" Fred grinned. Tim was already tying the rope around their legs. "Timothy here was just saying you needed a bit of remedial training for the summer fete," winked the handyman, setting two flower pots at the end of the stretch of road, "so I've agreed to lend a hand. Right, these here'll be your end posts, and you'll just work up a good one-two rhythm..."

After a few rounds down the alley, Patrick heard the door swing open and looked up for a moment to see a wimpled head turn. He tried to settle the butterflies in his stomach as they crossed the finish line. Cool and collected, he thought.

"Hello, Sister!" Patrick looked up just as Sister Monica Joan clanged at an old cow bell.

"Once more unto the breach, Masters Turner! I saw your first attempts through the window, Doctor, and assumed you were in need of all the aid that could be mustered." She waved a small flag and winked at Tim.

"Come on, dad!" Tim nearly knocked the disgruntled doctor off his feet, leaping off once more.

Several attempts later, Patrick was feeling rather good about himself, and was eyeing the windows working up the courage to ask Sister Monica Joan whether anyone else might be waiting on call at Nonnatus House. Perhaps he should check on the pethidine supplies in the clinical room, he thought, as they rounded the flower pots. And he might follow up on the issue of the spirit lamps.

He found himself looking up at the door again after a particularly fast go of it. Yes, he should definitely check about the spirit lamps.

"Timothy, perhaps we should call it quits for now."

"Just a few more, dad, we need to practice a lot if we're going to win." Fred's whistle blew, and Patrick wiped the sweat from his brow as they hopped along again.

A bicycle bell behind them startled him so much that he fell over turning to see who it was.

"Hello, Doctor, are you quite all right?" Patrick looked up into the scapular, the sister's eyes wide in concern behind her horn-rimmed spectacles.

"We're okay, aren't we, Tim?"

"Dad," Timothy whined. "That was _not_ very cool." Sister Bernadette suppressed a giggle, not of derision or sympathy, but something like-affection?

"Hello, Sister," Patrick tried to control the boyish grin spreading across his face as she helped them both up. Suddenly it didn't feel quite so important that he appear cool or collected, if she smiled at him like that.

"Well, Doc, that was a good shout. If you're sure you don't need tending to, I'd best be getting back to me duties in the garden-"

"But we need more practice! I want to show Sister Bernadette, and we need Bagheera to help us keep pace-"

"Now, Tim, not everyone has the afternoon free-"

"I could take over." Patrick swung around, transfixed by her clear blue eyes. His mouth hung slightly open.

"That would be brilliant!" Tim bent to tighten the rope around their legs.

"Are you sure, Sister?" She nodded. "Okay, Tim, but this is the last go. Promise?"

"Promise," Tim curled his pinky into Patrick's. They hobbled to the start, and Patrick bent down.

"We'll make this the best one yet," he winked. Tim nodded, biting his lip with determination.

Sister Bernadette counted down and blew the whistle, and the Turner men raced toward the flower pots at the other end of the lane. Sister Monica Joan rang her bell and both nuns clapped gleefully, cheering them on. Patrick reached his hand out to steady them against the wall when they'd finished, breathing hard.

"I think that *was* the best one yet!" Tim beamed. "Did you see, Sister Bernadette?"

"Very well done, Timothy. Do you need help with that knot?" Tim was struggling to loosen the rope around their legs, and Patrick felt a lump rise in his throat as she approached his ankle. Her palm was light against his calf, steadying her small fingers while they worked the knot free. Her habit pulled tighter against her back when she knelt like this, and he tried to shake these thoughts of her body from his head, grateful that she and Tim were both occupied chatting animatedly below him.

"And I think we might have a chance to win this year!" Tim bounced with excited energy while trying to keep still, talking to the Sister like there was no one else in the world.

"There." She met his gaze, and Patrick sympathized with his son. There might as well be no one else. "Would you like to come in for a cup of tea?"

"Yes, please, Sister Bernadette!" Tim piped up before he could answer.

Sister Monica Joan had beat them back to the kitchen and was already tucking into a plate of biscuits, which she shared with Timothy while Sister Bernadette put the kettle on.

The phone rang just as they sat down, and Patrick found himself drifting away from Sister Monica Joan's monologue to Timothy on Richard the Third. Not so unusual an occurrence, he reasoned, but felt his palms growing warm at the guilty realization that his ear was tuned, almost instinctively, to Sister Bernadette's murmurs in the hall. Why, on a rare free afternoon with his son, was he hoping she might ask him to attend a case?

Patrick forced himself to nod along to the conversation beside him, but noted what he thought was the click of the telephone. He sprang up as she re-entered the room. "Am I needed, Sister?"

"No, Doctor," she smiled politely. "I'm afraid I must go out on another call-Mrs. Marks-but I don't expect a complicated delivery. And Doctor Ackerley is on call today, in case anything does arise. Enjoy your afternoon free, Timothy. Doctor."

He watched her go, noting again the impulse his eyes had to strain for the sight of her wimple, the glint of her specs, the sound of her bicycle bell, the lilt of her rare laughter. He smiled, remembering her flushed face today as she cheered them on, and that giggle. Did she ever notice his… shabby lab coat? Patrick winced. Trying to think of any equivalent features of his own was too embarrassing. He reached for a biscuit. Half-way through his tea, he realized it was made just as he liked it: one sugar and a splash of milk. Sister Monica Joan's was black, and, he suspected, very sweet. Tim's looked to be nearly half milk, his preference. Sister Bernadette's cup sat empty; she'd made the tea, and he discovered he wasn't sure how she liked hers. The thought made him ache.

As Tim chattered away in the back seat on their way home, Patrick glanced down the lane at the Marks's as they passed, a bicycle parked outside. Tomorrow he'd be sure to follow up about those spirit lamps. Absolutely tomorrow.


End file.
